Toast
by thecupcakeimp
Summary: Badou learns a lesson the hard way, which is always twice the amusement for everyone else.


A/N: First of all, this is indeed a story I wrote for school. Below this is the edited version that I actually turned in, but personally, I think it lost a lot of it's uhm, charm. XDDD So, that's why it's a little bit more informative about what they do and such, because obviously, I'm the only one in my class that knows how screwed up these two are. Heine isn't the same person if you don't know he _likes_ to blow out brains, y'know?

Obviously, the reason I turned in a fanfiction was because I had no idea what to write, and the image of the following story was just... I... I had to. **Our assignment was to write something about a character who 'learned a lesson'.** Pahahahahahaha. I knew that everyone else would write about sentimental things like 'cherish what you have' and 'love conquers all' and 'believe in yourself' and sappy stuff like that. Not meeeeee. XD It was way too good of an opportunity to pass up! D:

Disclaimer: If I owned Dogs, Badou and Heine would do _so many _dirty things together.

* * *

**Toast**

Badou Nails was definitely not the brightest guy around. For being someone who lived in the Underground and had some pretty good street-smarts, he lacked an incredible amount of common sense. Which got him into some tough shit.

He flopped on his ratty old couch in his old apartment, sprawling out on it, his almost mid-back length hair tied back out of his way. He adjusted his eye patch, which covered his almost blind, scarred right eye, while his bright green left eye slid over to the TV that was playing Sailor Moon re-runs, but he didn't care. Nah, not with the blatant lesbianism and shit like that. However…

Heine Rammstiener, his work partner, was fuckin' late.

For someone who nagged so damn much when Badou was late, Heine had his fair share of late days too.

Of course, Badou tended to be late _to_ their job, while Heine was usually late_ from_, taking a long time to finish it (blowing out brains). Badou was normally a P.I. Private Investigator (Extraordinaire), who got the worst fuckin' jobs in this hellhole of a city, usually involving cheating husbands who were into seriously kinky shit and him taking pictures of said kinky shit. Yup, it was a terrible job. So, on the side, for some extra dough, he worked with Heine, busting drug syndicates, taking out gangs, and sometimes rescuing kids that were leftover experiments from a few years back that usually ended up getting used for ah, less savory kinda stuff that Badou was _not_ interested in, like little sex slaves and weird stuff. In other words, much more dangerous work that usually involved a lot of guns and guts going everywhere.

Heine was an experiment as well, but much more of a comic-book kinda thing that Badou would have laughed at if he hadn't seen the freaky albino in action. He'd been taken from wherever he lived, a weird collar implanted on his neck that went into his spine, and was pretty much super human. He could get shot hundreds of times and live unless he was shot in the head (he just healed right up), he was extra-strong (not like, Hulk strong, but for being as skinny as he was, half the shit he didn't shouldn't have been possible), and was also bloodthirsty and vicious when the Dog came out. That was what Heine called it anyway. He said it was practically like a really, really bad seriously fucked up personality disorder (but Badou just thought he was majorly fucked up in the head and had some really nutty anger management issues sometimes). He usually controlled the Dog pretty well, unless things got bad during a job, or his nemesis, Giovanni showed up. Then, shit went down and people got ripped up, brains blew out, limbs went flying, and Badou had to do his best to not bolt (or shit himself). Heine could get pretty scary.

Speak of the damn devil, the devil himself was back.

The albino kicked open the door, startling Badou (who fell off the couch screeching that he could 'use the fuckin' door fuckin' properly, and not act like some goddamned guy comin' in to rape, pillage, and plunder and that kinda shit, and could he just fuckin' knock?'). But Heine ignored him and took his usual place on the ratty old couch. Badou pulled himself up, scowling.

"Hey man, what took you so long?" he asked.

"I was playing tag," Heine shrugged, eyeing the TV with distaste.

"Tag."

"Yes."

Badou lit up a cigarette, rolling his eyes. He knew that Heine's idea of tag probably involved him being it, armed with two guns, tagging other people with bullets.

"You're so fucked up," Badou muttered.

Heine just shrugged and ran a thin, pale hand through his white hair, closing his crimson eyes.

"Whatever," he sighed.

"You hungry?"

"No."

"You _never_ eat. What d'you weigh, seventy pounds or somethin'?" Heine opened his eyes to glare at him. "Okay, okay, chill thefuckout, man. Just askin'. I, for one, am gonna make some toast."

Heine fixed him with a glare that read 'why they hell do you think I care?'

Badou just shook his head and stood, walking out into the kitchen. He felt like eating toast. Usually, he just bit right off the loaf of bread itself, but not today.

Heine changed the channel, finding an old _24 _re-run (Jack Bauer could get taken out by Jason Bourne any fuckin' day), and kicked his lanky legs up on the coffee table. It wobbled- he'd punched Badou, who fell on it, and broke one of the legs off. Poor thing had never been the same. But he had laughed his ass off at the time. Badou's face had been so, so priceless, the stupid cumdumpster.

But then there was a shriek, a loud clatter, and a pause.

Then an eruption of loud, decidedly creative vulgarities from Badou.

"OH MY FUCKIN' GOD, SHIT SHIT SHIT SHIT MOTHERFUCKER COCK-SUCKING TITTIE TWISTING STUPID FUCKING-"

Heine dragged himself up off of the couch, deciding that Badou might be in a situation to laugh at.

And oh, was he ever.

Badou was curled up on the floor, toast halfway across the room, the toaster seemed to have fallen as well.

But the best part was the fork on the floor.

"Did… you just get your toast out with a fork?" Heine asked, biting back laughter.

Badou twitched, continuing to curse, and nodded reluctantly.

"You fuckin' _dumbass!"_

Heine laughed. He laughed so hard his sides started to hurt, and he had to use the doorway as support.

"Oh- go shove sandpaper up your asshole…" Badou whined.

Heine just kept laughing, walked over, swooped down and picked up the toast. And ate it in three bites.

"That, boys and girls, is why we don't get toast out of toasters with forks, like dipshit here," he said.

Badou gaped at him.

"I hate you so much you stupid cumguzzling zombie, just go fuck Naoto or something 'cause YOU'RE NOT GETTING ANY FROM ME!"

Heine glared at him, "You wanna say that again? 'Cause I could always plug the toaster back in, duct tape a fork in your hand, and just ram it into the toaster so it's stuck in there. Sounds like a good game to me."

Badou glared back and Heine went back to being pissed about Jack Bauer and how pathetic he was compared to Jason Bourne.

Badou sighed and pulled himself up, putting the now useless toaster on the counter. He grabbed the loaf of bread and took a bite out of it, feeling sorry for himself (since there was a fuckin' huge lack of sympathy from that freaky albino shithead).

He had really wanted toast, too.

* * *

**Toast (edited) D:**

Badou Nails was definitely not the brightest guy around. For being someone who lived in the Underground and had some pretty good street-smarts, he lacked an incredible amount of common sense.

He flopped on his ratty old couch in his old apartment, sprawling out on it, his almost mid-back length hair tied back out of his way. He adjusted his eye patch, which covered his almost blind, scarred right eye, while his bright green left eye slid over to the TV, which was currently playing Sailor Moon re-runs. It kind of sucked.

Heine Rammstiener, his work partner, was late.

For someone who nagged so much when Badou was late, Heine had his fair share of late days too.

Of course, Badou tended to be late _to_ their job, while Heine was usually late_ from_, taking a long time to finish it. Badou was normally a P.I. Private investigator extraordinaire, who got terrible jobs in this hellhole of a city, usually involving cheating husbands. Or something similar to that. Yup, it was a terrible job. So, on the side, for some extra dough, he worked with Heine, busting drug syndicates, taking out gangs, and sometimes rescuing kids that were leftover experiments from a few years back. Much more dangerous work that usually involved a lot of guns.

Heine was an experiment as well, but much more of a comic-book kinda thing that Badou would have laughed at if he hadn't seen the freaky albino in action. He'd been taken from wherever he lived, a weird collar implanted on his neck that went into his spine, and was pretty much super human. He could get shot hundreds of times and live unless he was shot in the head (he just healed right up), he was extra-strong (not like, Hulk strong, but for being as skinny as he was, half the stuff he didn't shouldn't have been possible), and was also bloodthirsty and vicious when the Dog came out. That was what Heine called it anyway. He said it was practically like a really bad personality disorder (but Badou just thought he was majorly screwed up). He usually controlled the Dog pretty well, unless things got bad during a job, or his nemesis, Giovanni showed up. Then, shit went down and people got ripped up, and Badou had to do his best to not bolt. Heine could get pretty scary.

Speak of the devil, the devil himself was back.

The albino kicked open the door, startling Badou (who fell ever-so-ungracefully off the couch, screeching a few choice curses). Heine ignored him and took his usual place on the ratty old couch. Badou pulled himself up, scowling.

"Hey man, what took you so long?" he asked.

"I was playing tag," Heine shrugged, eyeing the TV with distaste.

"Tag."

"Yes."

Badou lit up a cigarette, rolling his eyes. He knew that Heine's idea of tag probably involved him being it, armed with two guns, tagging other people with bullets.

"You're screwed up," Badou muttered.

Heine just shrugged and ran a thin, pale hand through his white hair, closing his crimson eyes.

"Whatever," he sighed.

"You hungry?"

"No."

"You _never_ eat. What d'you weigh, seventy pounds or somethin'?" Heine opened his eyes to glare at him. "Okay, okay, chill out, man. Just askin'. I, for one, am gonna make some toast."

Heine fixed him with a glare that read 'why they hell do you think I care?'

Badou just shook his head and stood, walking out into the kitchen. He felt like eating toast. Usually, he just bit right off the loaf of bread itself, but not today.

Heine changed the channel, finding an old _24 _re-run (Jack Bauer could get taken out by Jason Bourne any day), and kicked his lanky legs up on the coffee table. It wobbled- he'd punched Badou, who fell on it, and broke one of the legs off. Poor thing had never been the same.

But then there was a shriek, a loud clatter, and a pause.

Then an eruption of loud, decidedly creative vulgarities from Badou.

Heine dragged himself up off of the couch, deciding that Badou might be in a situation to laugh at.

And oh, was he ever.

Badou was curled up on the floor, toast halfway across the room, the toaster seemed to have fallen as well.

But the best part was the fork on the floor.

"Did… you just get your toast out with a fork?" Heine asked, biting back laughter.

Badou twitched, continuing to curse, and nodded reluctantly.

Heine laughed. He laughed so hard his sides started to hurt, and he had to use the doorway as support.

"Asshole…" Badou whined.

Heine just kept laughing, walked over, swooped down and picked up the toast. And ate it in three bites.

"That, boys and girls, is why we don't get toast out of toasters with forks," he said.

Badou gaped at him.

"I hate you so much you stupid-!" and here began another violent storm of cursing and swearing.

Heine just chuckled and went back to complaining about Jack Bauer.

Badou sighed and pulled himself up, putting the now useless toaster on the counter. He grabbed the loaf of bread and took a bite out of it, feeling sorry for himself (since there was a decided lack of sympathy from that freaky albino bastard).

He had really wanted toast, too.

* * *

A/N: In conclusion, kiddies, dun stick forks in toasters ;D


End file.
